


T-I-J-P

by ThisBeautifulDrowning



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 01:27:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3432965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThisBeautifulDrowning/pseuds/ThisBeautifulDrowning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“'m fine.” He doesn't <i>feel</i> fine. Maybe it's better if he heads back to the hotel. Or better yet, the police station. He can catch a break there <i>and</i> be around if something happens. “Just a bit dizzy. It'll pass.”</p><p>The man studies him for a long, silent minute. Then he extends his hand in greeting. “Hannibal Lecter, MD. When was the last time you had a real meal?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	T-I-J-P

**Author's Note:**

> Look, guys, the title? It _literally_ stands for 'This Is Just Porn'. 
> 
> As requested, nothing hurts in this story.
> 
> ...much.

**T-I-J-P**

 

 

Crawford hands Will a ticket and says, “Paris has a problem. Go solve it. You leave in half an hour.”

 

Ten hours later, jet–lagged, grumpy and hungry, Will checks into a hotel on the other side of the planet. He's stoically waiting for his passport number to be entered into the hotel's guest registry when he notices the man at the other end of the reception desk, head bent over a brochure.

 

It's the suit that draws Will's attention. It's jet–black and stands out amid the more colourful wardrobe of the other hotel guests in the lobby. It's two o'clock in the afternoon and this guy looks like he's heading to the opera. Or to a funeral. The starkness of his outfit is broken up by only two points of colour, a matching pocket square and tie, both dark red, arterial–red.

 

The man begins to lift his head, sensing the attention.

 

Quickly, Will looks away before their eyes meet, disgusted by his own behaviour. He makes it a point _not_ to stare at others, because he doesn't like being stared at, either. He gets stared at enough already, usually by members of the psychology department at Quantico, or by his colleagues, when he makes one of his 'jumps' that have earned him the debatable fame of being the FBI's best criminal profiler.

 

He's probably just tired. He hit the ground running in Crawford's office, ten hours ago, and in two hours his contact at the _Police Nationale_ , the French police, is going to pick him up to drive him to the first crime scene of the serial killer that has been haunting Paris for six weeks now. He hopes he can at least catch a nap before then.

 

It's just Will's luck that he and Mister Suit end up on the same elevator together, Will pressing the button to the second floor, the other man selecting the top floor, where the expensive suites are located. Figures. A suit like that screams money, as does the rest of the outfit: the polished leather shoes, the gold cuff links Will can see gleaming in the reflective carriage walls, the tasteful but obvious Rolex on his wrist.

 

Even his aftershave smells expensive. Across the polite three feet of distance between them, Will, who has been told that he has no nose for these things, detects notes of sandalwood. He feels painfully aware of his own, probably less than fragrant state after the ten–hour–flight from Virginia to Paris.

 

“Good day,” the man says politely when Will steps out of the carriage, dragging his battered suitcase.

 

“Thanks,” Will mutters without looking, his mind already turning back to the Seine Strangler.

 

He hit the ground running, and he has a feeling he'll be running for a while yet.

 

Paris has a monster, and Will's the one who's going to catch it.

 

–

 

Three days later, Will's still running, and he's running on fumes: Aspirin washed down with stale coffee, cans of soda for little energy boosts that carry him into the next hour, pre–packed sandwiches grabbed from police station vending machines.

 

The Seine Strangler has taken his sixth victim, a young girl this time.

 

Will has gotten close to the Strangler. He knows, intimately, what it feels like to tighten the noose around someone's neck, knows how they struggle and then just give up when unconsciousness takes them, when the life leaves them. He stood in morgues, reliving the power trip, the catharsis. That slick, sick rush of grandeur, of being God.

 

Knows how hard a thing that is to give up, once you had a taste of it.

 

Knowing all that has gotten him exactly nowhere. The Strangler is an intelligent sadist. Will knows from experience that intelligent sadists can be hard to catch. Some are never caught at all. The Strangler leaves no evidence, just a loop of rope digging into the purplish, swollen throats of his victims. He doesn't sexually assault them, doesn't bite, doesn't do anything that leaves DNA, fibres, fingerprints. There's nothing special about the rope, either; it can be bought in hardware stores all over France.

 

The people working with Will at the _Police Nationale_ are beginning to look at him less like he's the star profiler come to solve all their problems and more like he's an oddball Crawford sent them just to be rid of him for a while. It _grates_. Back home, everybody he works with understands that there are limits to Will's ability, that he isn't a Magic–8 Ball, and they all understand that because he's been working with them for years.

 

Here, in Paris, he doesn't have that safety net of understanding. He doesn't even speak the same language as these people.

 

–

 

On the fourth day, he decides he needs a break. He walks out of the police station without telling anyone where he's going. His contact, Capitaine Bessette, has his cellphone number, so he can give Will a call if anything important happens or ground–breaking new evidence turns up.

 

He walks for a while, aimless. Paris is a beautiful city, but it's crowded, noisy: a far cry from Will's little farmstead on the outskirts of Wolf Trap, Virginia. He misses the silence. He hopes his neighbour doesn't forget to feed his dogs. He hopes they'll get a break on the case soon; he wants to go home.

 

He finds a park bench at the edge of the Seine and sits. It's late afternoon and the view of the sun sinking on the horizon, the Eiffel Tower in stark contrast, is soothing in its simplicity. He tunes out the cars rushing on the broad avenue behind him, relaxes, lets his thoughts slowly unwind, as much as they ever do.

 

“Hello.”

 

So much for that.

 

Will squints his eyes open. It's the man from the hotel lobby, dressed in a different suit. On anyone else, that mix of powder blue and off–white would look ridiculous, but he somehow makes it look good. Will flicks a quick glance up past the perfectly knotted tie, registers a strong jaw, sensuous lips, a straight nose, a pair of deep–set, dark eyes, and looks away again. Eyes are distracting. “Hi.”

 

The man sits, taking the space to Will's left. “We were on the same elevator –”

 

“Three days ago in the hotel, yes, I remember.”

 

Will winces inwardly. That came out more bluntly than intended. Fatigue and frustration do that to him. Pretty much everything does that to him. He's not good with people. He can't think of any good reason for this man to sit next to him, other than small–talk, and that's something Will is _spectacularly_ bad at. He just doesn't care enough to involve himself in that kind of social interaction, not even for the sake of politeness.

 

“Sorry,” he offers lamely. “That was rude.”

 

“I'd imagine you're under a lot of stress at the moment. Hunting serial killers can't be easy.”

 

“How do you –”

 

The man holds up a folded newspaper Will previously hadn't noticed. “I read _Le Monde's_ article about you.”

 

So has half of Paris. When he walked out of the hotel this morning, everyone in the lobby was staring at him, from the receptionists to the doormen the guests. Will suppresses a groan. He hasn't read the article himself, but he can guess at the contents, and he knows that the less he knows about it, the less he'll be aggravated. There's a lot of bullshit going around about the way he works and/or the way he thinks.

 

The last thing he wants now is to have some stranger attempt to engage him in conversation just to have something to brag about later: _I talked to the man who thinks about killing people for a living. Imagine that._

 

Yeah, no. He'll nip that one right in the bud. Will rises, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Look,” he says, striving for calm, “nice meeting you and all, but I should really – whoa –”

 

When the world stops spinning, Will's back on the park bench, head between his knees. There's a hand on the back of his neck, strong and warm. He concentrates on breathing for a while, concentrates on keeping the scant contents of his stomach down. The head rush fades more slowly than he likes and leaves behind a queasy emptiness in his gut.

 

Slowly, guided by the hand now resting on his shoulder, he straightens up. Sweat has broken out along his hairline. His fingers feel cold and stiff. He squints up at the man bending toward him, feels embarrassment flood him. Great. More fuel to the Will Graham Is Crazy fire.

 

“Are you all right?” the man asks, concern colouring the tone of his voice.

 

“'m fine.” He doesn't _feel_ fine. Maybe it's better if he heads back to the hotel. Or better yet, the police station. He can catch a break there _and_ be around if something happens. “Just a bit dizzy. It'll pass.”

 

The man studies him for a long, silent minute. Then he extends his hand in greeting. “Hannibal Lecter, MD. When was the last time you had a real meal?”

 

–

 

“Look,” Will protests, one cab ride later, “this really isn't necessary. I'm _fine_.”

 

His protest goes ignored. With a firm hand in the small of Will's back, Hannibal Lecter, MD, guides him into the most lavish hotel suite Will has ever laid eyes on. “I insist,” Hannibal says, closing the door behind them with a definite snick of the lock. “It's either this or an ambulance. I took an oath to heal people, Will – oh, I apologize. Terribly rude of me. May I call you Will?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Will mutters. He's still a bit wobbly on his feet, but hell's going to freeze over before he admits it. “What kind of doctor are you, anyway?”

 

“Surgeon. Retired surgeon, to be specific. But don't worry.” Hannibal nudges him toward a sitting arrangement under a crystal chandelier. “I promise I won't break out the scalpels. Now, will you be all right by yourself for a few moments?”

 

Will figures it's easier to give in to Hannibal's overbearing attention for a few minutes and to slip out at the next best opportunity than to risk really ending up in an ambulance. For all his impeccable manners, Hannibal strikes him as the kind of man who makes good on his threats of calling in the reinforcements, if the patient is recalcitrant. “Yeah, I'll be fine.”

 

Hannibal disappears into the deeper recesses of the suite. Will listens to him scrounge around for a bit until his focus starts to drift. The couch really does look comfortable. He sits, letting his head sink back and closing his eyes.

 

When he opens them again, the lighting around him is different, and he's no longer upright but curled up on his side. There's a soft, plush pillow under his head. Across from him, Hannibal sits and reads by the light of a lamp, appearing completely engrossed by the leather–bound tome balanced on his knee, and for a few moments, Will forgets all about boundaries and just watches him.

 

He's an attractive man. The warm glow of the lamp adds some softness to his stark lines, draws attention to his lips and eyes. Without his suit jacket and tie, the top button at his collar open and the sleeves folded up to his elbows, he appears less severe than Will's first impression of him suggested. Hannibal looks – _inviting_ , Will thinks, and allows himself a moment of fantasy, imagining how it would go if he were to take Hannibal up on that invitation. If he would be interested.

 

Then he realizes _why_ Hannibal is reading by the light of a lamp, and comes suddenly, jarringly, fully awake.

 

It's evening. Late enough for Hannibal to _need_ that light.

 

Will must have been asleep for hours.

 

He sits up in a hurry, discovering there's a blanket over him only when it falls off and pools in his lap. Cold, hard trepidation grips him. He's been lying on this couch for hours, and the Seine Strangler is still out there, could be murdering his next victim right now –

 

Hannibal appears at the side of the couch like a ghost. “Will?”

 

Will rears back. He hasn't even heard the other man move.

 

Hannibal cocks his head, watches him carefully. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

 

Will swings his feet to the floor and notices a definite absence of shoes over his socks. _What the hell?_ He's not wearing his jacket, either. His cellphone, along with his wallet and the key card to his own hotel room, are stacked orderly on a low coffee table between the couch and a fat, potted plant. “What – how long was I asleep?” It comes out fast and almost panicked. “How long did you let me sleep?”

 

“A little over six hours. You seemed to need it.”

 

“Six – !”

 

“Will. _Will_. It's all right. Your cellphone rang while you slept, so I took the liberty of answering it –”

 

“You _what_?”

 

“– and the French policeman I spoke to told me to tell you to take the rest of the day off,” Hannibal finishes calmly. “There have been, quote, no new developments. Capitaine Bessette wishes me to convey a good night to you. He will call again if anything happens that they need you for.”

 

Will doesn't know whether to be furious at Hannibal for assuming that kind of control over him, or grateful for being told that there are no new Strangler victims. He's leaning toward furious. “You should have woken me up.”

 

“If there had been anything important to wake you up _for_ , I would have.” Hannibal's reply is delivered in a maddening, matter–of–fact tone of voice. “I know sleep deprivation when I see it. You're not going to catch the Strangler faster by running yourself ragged. You almost fainted, earlier. I'd hope a man of your intelligence would heed the warning signs and act accordingly.”

 

Will gapes up at Hannibal, brought up short. So far, the man's been nothing but a paradigm of politeness wrapped in refined sophistication; this, Will thinks arbitrarily, is the no–nonsense voice of the doctor talking sense into a patient. It's the verbal equivalent of a wake–up slap to the face.

 

Will deflates. He may not want to admit it to himself, but Hannibal is right. Will isn't a very trusting person by nature, but he just slept for a solid six hours in the company of a – all right, not so complete – stranger. He's _that_ far gone.

 

As quickly as it came, the harshness falls away from Hannibal. “Now, if you're feeling up to it, I've prepared us a snack.”

 

Right on cue, Will's stomach growls. His mortification is complete.

 

–

 

The 'snack' turns out to be a sumptuous, three–course meal. Hannibal has turned the hotel suite's dining room – Will didn't even know hotel suites _had_ dining rooms – into a functional kitchen, portable stove and mini–oven arranged on a sideboard behind a Japanese rice paper screen. He has stainless steel pans, heavy pots, spice racks and little baskets with a variety of ingredients lined up next to bottles of wine and other, headier spirits.

 

Will sits at the long, dark oak dining table, fiddling with the linen napkin. “There's room service, you know.”

 

“I'm very careful about what I put into my body, which means that I end up preparing most meals myself.” Hannibal bustles back and forth between the portable stove – no camping stove, this, but one of those induction things – and a silver tray, soup ladle in hand. “Paris has many exceptional food markets, especially if you stray off the beaten path.”

 

“I wouldn't know,” Will mutters. He's not here for sightseeing.

 

The first course consists of bite-sized strips of meat in a spicy, faintly red broth. Hannibal sets the little bowl down in front of Will with a flourish. “Something hot and vibrant to wake the palate. Dates and wolfberries, ginger, star anise. The meat is Silkie chicken. Black–boned. It is highly priced in China for its taste as well as its medicinal values.”

 

Will refrains from commenting that it sounds like chicken soup. It does smell delicious, making his mouth water.

 

After the soup comes the main course: thick slices of dark meat, with a side dish of baked potatoes stuffed with sour cream and chives. “ _Canard au sang_ ,” Hannibal explains, eyes gleaming. He is in his element, Will can tell. “My own recipe, a variation on the original. Preparation calls for the duck to be asphyxiated rather than killed the conventional way. It retains more blood and yields a richer, earthier taste. The sauce is especially good, made with liver and -”

 

Asphyxiated. _Strangled._ Will stares at the food on his plate.

 

To his left, Hannibal utters a little, “Oh.” He reaches over, a quick press of warm fingers over the fist Will has cramped around his fork. “I am so sorry. I did not...how careless of me.”

 

It takes an effort to bring fork to plate and food to mouth, the act motivated more by guiltiness over Hannibal's unhappy expression than appetite, but Will does it, stoically; he won't allow _any_ case to affect him in that way. The thick taste of rich meat and blood unfolds on his tongue, bloodier than he normally likes, when he eats steak. The meat doesn't really taste like duck, but then Will's no gourmet, and there are probably a hundred spices in this dish he couldn't even name.

 

He feels Hannibal watching him like a hawk. “It's good.” He attempts a second bite. Easier. His appetite returns. “Really good. You're a good cook.”

 

“Thank you. Forgive my thoughtlessness?”

 

“No, I...I'm the one who should apologize.” Will's not good at this, but he tries. “You went to so much trouble, and I'm ruining it.”

 

Hannibal picks up his own knife and fork. “You're not ruining anything. I suspect what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Associations are unavoidable.”

 

Will glances over. “That's a very astute observation.” He rolls things around in his mind for a bit, a suspicion niggling at him. “You said you are a _retired_ surgeon. What's your field of interest now, doctor?”

 

“I'm afraid if I tell you, you'll get up and leave. _Le Monde's_ article on you was very thorough. They mentioned a few things.”

 

“You're a psychiatrist.”

 

“With no ulterior motivation behind this meal, or any of my other actions, I assure you.”

 

That's what psychiatrists usually tell Will when they try to engage him. By now, he's famous for bluntly telling the members of Quantico's psychology department where to shove it. He doesn't want anyone fumbling around inside his head, however well–meaning their intentions may be. He doesn't like being singled out for what he can do, and he particularly doesn't like the way psychiatrists tend to look at him, like he's something new and interesting to study, to _dissect_.

 

He feels none of that coming from Hannibal, however. The man really just seems to want to make sure Will's fed and fine, and the discomfort over his faux–pas with the blood duck was genuine. He looks at Will less like Will's something he wants to study, more like he's someone he wants to know.

 

Biblically, maybe. Well, it's not like that thought hasn't already crossed Will's mind.

 

He eats another mouthful of duck, takes a sip of wine. Takes a chance. “No ulterior motivation at all?”

 

He leaves the interpretation of that question up to the other man.

 

Hannibal slants him a look, warm and amused. “Well, now that you mention it...”

 

–

 

The bedroom is darker than the rest of the suite, muted colours on lacquered wood, rusty reds and sated blues against tarnished gold. It's very warm. Thick curtains lock out the rest of the world.

 

Hannibal undresses him with attention to detail, each article of clothing folded and laid aside orderly. He touches Will like he's something important, valuable, and kneels in front of him, large, warm hands framing Will's hips.

 

Will feels decadent, pampered. The last shreds of reservation fade from his mind.

 

Hannibal licks his lips. The light from the single lamp in the corner casts shadows over his face and a gleam into his eyes. “You're exquisite,” he tells Will, looking up at him. Aversion to eye contact is a thing of the past. Will feels challenged and grounded, incredibly turned on. “Tell me what you want.”

 

“Your mouth.” Will can think of a few other things he wants, but for now, he'll start with that.

 

Hannibal gives it to him, a slow, wet glide from the tip to the root of Will's cock, sheathing him in heat and soft suction. He grabs at the hands holding onto him, grateful, needing the tether. The gentle, physical assault is a shock to his system; it's been a while for Will. His own hand doesn't compare to the touch of another person's, to Hannibal's. He sways forward, cards his fingers through Hannibal's hair, touches a fingertip to the stretched lips accommodating him.

 

He'll want to reciprocate, any way Hannibal wants him to, but for now he revels in the slow build of lust, his _own_ , not the alien, cold desires of another, seeping through the cracks of the forts in the bone arena of his skull, built for the protection of the things he loves.

 

He's sucked with consummate skill, brought to the edge quickly. Will mewls a protest. He doesn't want this to be over so soon.

 

Hannibal draws back, holding the tip of Will's cock in his mouth and circling his tongue over the glans. His teeth graze the sensitive flesh, a careful scrape from tip to frenulum, and Will's on his tiptoes by the end of it, panting. The hint of danger raises the hair on the back of his neck, tightens his spine.

 

He's let go, hard and right on the edge of orgasm, and that's _cruel_ , but it's also good. Hannibal surges up against him, enfolding him, mouths pressed together. He's just that bit taller than Will, broader than Will, _bolder_ than Will, to make Will weak in the knees. Manhandling isn't Will's thing, but he knows Hannibal is going to handle him just right.

 

“You taste like blood,” he mumbles into the kiss. It's not a bad taste.

 

“You taste wonderful,” Hannibal tells him, and leads him to the bed.

 

Will gets his chance at reciprocation there. He's far less careful with Hannibal's clothes than Hannibal was with his. Under the crisp, white shirt, Hannibal's fitter than Will has guessed, corded muscles in his arms and shoulders, greying hair on his broad chest. He has a bit of belly Will can't help but find adorable, fitting his palm to the warm curve, then his mouth. Hannibal stretches under his ministrations like a great, lazy cat, a hand on the back of Will's neck, blunt nails against skin.

 

The rest of Hannibal doesn't disappoint, either. Will peels him out of pants and briefs, slips off his socks. Wiry strength in his thighs, elegantly arched feet, trimmed hair at his groin. His cock is a nice size, curving a bit to the left. Will drags a fingertip along the underside. He'll want that in him, soon.

 

For now, he learns the taste of him, salty and a little sharp, until Hannibal hooks both hands under Will's arms and drags him up. Will lets go of his mouthful with a wet pop, an insufferable feeling of smugness settling in his bones when he catches sight of Hannibal's face, heat in his cheeks, nostrils flared.

 

Hannibal rolls him to his back and himself on top. “Your Capitaine Bessette is going to have a hard time prying you away from me, if you keep that up.” He nuzzles into the side of Will's throat, over the pulse point, tongue, then teeth, then tongue again. “Careful. I may want to keep you.”

 

As much as the idea appeals, Will knows it's an impossibility. It never occurred to him to ask what Hannibal's doing in Paris, or where he's going, but Will knows where _he's_ going after he catches the Seine Strangler: back to Virginia, back to Quantico. All the way back to the FBI.

 

He doesn't want to think about that now. It'll only ruin the mood. He spreads his legs, winding them around Hannibal's waist, welcoming him closer. He lifts his hips, pressing his cock into Hannibal's belly. “Fuck me,” he demands, greedy for it now. “I want you in me.”

 

Hannibal produces a strip of condoms and a ceramic jar from the bedside table, fingers him open while they trade lazy, long kisses. Will writhes on three strong fingers pressed dead centre on his prostate, wholly appreciative of all that anatomical knowledge being demonstrated on him, even when he can't quite decide if it's too good or too much, or not enough.

 

“Fuck me already,” he groans, when the sweat breaks out between his shoulder blades.

 

And finally, fingers are replaced by cock, after Hannibal arranges him to his liking, guiding him to hands and knees, spread open and ready. Hard, deep thrust inside, hips flush to ass. Hannibal _grinds_. Will gasps for breath. Hannibal fucks him slow and so good, with just the right amount of roughness that lets Will know he'll be feeling this for a while, and god, he craves it.

 

He comes untouched, he comes undone. The drag of his cock against the soft sheets is enough. Hannibal finishes with a growl a few thrusts later, forcing himself past clenching muscle, collapsing over Will's back, a heavy, sweaty, hot weight without and within, arms wrapped tight around Will's middle, bearing him down.

 

–

 

Dessert is served in bed: caramel crème on delicate crepes, so thin Will can see the pattern of the plate through them. Hannibal adds a few slices of mango and garnishes with shavings of bitter, dark chocolate, with a dab of whipped cream and a few drops of cognac.

 

Will's pleasantly tired now, filled with good food, well-fucked, sore in all the right places. He takes obscene pleasure in watching Hannibal walk about naked, completely unconcerned with his appearance, at ease in his own skin in a way that _should_ elicit jealousy, but only elicits approval. It pleases him, somehow, that Hannibal lets him see this, lets him see him as he is, whereas he presents perfect suits and pressed lines to the rest of the world.

 

When they're done eating, Hannibal sets the dessert plates on a small table and stands at the side of the bed. He studies Will from his toes to the tips of his dishevelled hair, a grin curling the corners of his mouth. “I really do want to keep you. You _are_ exquisite.”

 

“That's the second time you're calling me that.” Will isn't used to compliments. He stretches and rolls over onto his belly, to hide his silly smile. “Most of the time, I'm just a mess.”

 

Hannibal joins him in bed, dragging a palm from Will's shoulder, down. “Beauty is always in the eye of the beholder.”

 

Will falls still. _Click_ , goes something inside. “What did you say?”

 

“I said, beauty –”

 

Will's out of the bed and in the sitting room of the suite so quickly he still feels the phantom imprint of Hannibal's hand on his ass when he snatches his cellphone up from the coffee table and dials Capitaine Bessette's number.

 

Out of his peripheral vision, he sees Hannibal appear in the doorway, both eyebrows raised. “Will? What –”

 

Will waves him silent. Of course. How could he be so _blind_?

 

As soon as he hears the call being picked up, he practically shouts, “The eyes! Find – no, no, _listen_. What? Yeah, I know exactly what time it is, _listen_ _to me_. I think he touches their eyes. Who do you have who's really good with latent prints?”

 

–

 

He dresses in a hurry. It's half past three in the morning and he'll have one hell of a time getting a cab to the police station now, but he'll run there if he has to. Capitaine Bessette is making calls, waking the cavalry, and Will knows, he _knows_ they'll catch the Seine Strangler tonight.

 

Hannibal leans in the doorway to the bedroom, black house coat tied snug, arms crossed over his chest.

 

Will hops over to him, still tying one shoe. “I'm really sorry. I'm sorry, but – _thank you_.”

 

Hannibal shakes his head. Laughs a little. “Go catch your monster.” He steadies Will with a hand on his shoulder, leans in, kisses him slowly and indulgently. “Come back to me.”

 

Will goes. And he does.

 

–

 

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> So there's a tiny bit of food porn in this story, a tiny bit of plot, a tiny bit of Will-whumping, and a whole lot of open-ended hints. Was Hannibal the Seine Strangler? Was it really duck Hannibal served Will? Is Hannibal a cannibal? If he is, is Will ever going to find out? 
> 
> I'll say, _no, no, yes, maybe_ to that. 
> 
> I liked the idea of these two meeting prior to the whole 'wind Will up and watch him go' thing that happened in the series, and the person I wrote this for specifically requested no ( obvious ) mindgame shenanigans and a bit of fluff, which I hope I delivered without bending Hannibal's character too far out of shape. 
> 
> Finally, I borrowed the 'latent prints' theme from _Red Dragon_. 
> 
> This story is for you, Em. You're the best. Stay you.


End file.
